F. S. Flint
ILondon, my beautiful,It is not the sunsetNor the pale green skyShimmering through the curtainOf the silver birch,Nor the quietness;It is not the hoppingOf the little birdsUpon the lawn,Nor the darknessStealing over all thingsThat moves me.But as the moon creeps slowlyOver the tree-topsAmong the stars,I think of herAnd the glow her passingSheds on men.London, my beautiful,I will climbInto the branchesTo the moonlit tree-tops,That my blood may be cooledBy the wind.IIUnder the lily shadowAnd the goldAnd the blue and mauveThat the whin and the lilacPour down on the water,The fishes quiver.Over the green cold leavesAnd the rippled silverAnd the tarnished copperOf its neck and beak,Toward the deep black waterBeneath the arches,The swan floats slowly.Into the dark of the arch the swan floatsAnd the black depth of my sorrowBears a white rose of flame.
ILondon, my beautiful,It is not the sunsetNor the pale green skyShimmering through the curtainOf the silver birch,Nor the quietness;It is not the hoppingOf the little birdsUpon the lawn,Nor the darknessStealing over all thingsThat moves me.But as the moon creeps slowlyOver the tree-topsAmong the stars,I think of herAnd the glow her passingSheds on men.London, my beautiful,I will climbInto the branchesTo the moonlit tree-tops,That my blood may be cooledBy the wind.IIUnder the lily shadowAnd the goldAnd the blue and mauveThat the whin and the lilacPour down on the water,The fishes quiver.Over the green cold leavesAnd the rippled silverAnd the tarnished copperOf its neck and beak,Toward the deep black waterBeneath the arches,The swan floats slowly.Into the dark of the arch the swan floatsAnd the black depth of my sorrowBears a white rose of flame.
I
I
London, my beautiful,It is not the sunsetNor the pale green skyShimmering through the curtainOf the silver birch,Nor the quietness;It is not the hoppingOf the little birdsUpon the lawn,Nor the darknessStealing over all thingsThat moves me.
London, my beautiful,
It is not the sunset
Nor the pale green sky
Shimmering through the curtain
Of the silver birch,
Nor the quietness;
It is not the hopping
Of the little birds
Upon the lawn,
Nor the darkness
Stealing over all things
That moves me.
But as the moon creeps slowlyOver the tree-topsAmong the stars,I think of herAnd the glow her passingSheds on men.
But as the moon creeps slowly
Over the tree-tops
Among the stars,
I think of her
And the glow her passing
Sheds on men.
London, my beautiful,I will climbInto the branchesTo the moonlit tree-tops,That my blood may be cooledBy the wind.
London, my beautiful,
I will climb
Into the branches
To the moonlit tree-tops,
That my blood may be cooled
By the wind.
II
II
Under the lily shadowAnd the goldAnd the blue and mauveThat the whin and the lilacPour down on the water,The fishes quiver.
Under the lily shadow
And the gold
And the blue and mauve
That the whin and the lilac
Pour down on the water,
The fishes quiver.
Over the green cold leavesAnd the rippled silverAnd the tarnished copperOf its neck and beak,Toward the deep black waterBeneath the arches,The swan floats slowly.
Over the green cold leaves
And the rippled silver
And the tarnished copper
Of its neck and beak,
Toward the deep black water
Beneath the arches,
The swan floats slowly.
Into the dark of the arch the swan floatsAnd the black depth of my sorrowBears a white rose of flame.
Into the dark of the arch the swan floats
And the black depth of my sorrow
Bears a white rose of flame.
The grass is beneath my head;And I gazeAt the thronging starsIn the aisles of night.They fall ... they fall....I am overwhelmed,And afraid.Each little leaf of the aspenIs caressed by the wind,And each is crying.And the perfumeOf invisible rosesDeepens the anguish.Let a strong mesh of rootsFeed the crimson of rosesUpon my heart;And then fold over the hollowWhere all the pain was.
The grass is beneath my head;And I gazeAt the thronging starsIn the aisles of night.They fall ... they fall....I am overwhelmed,And afraid.Each little leaf of the aspenIs caressed by the wind,And each is crying.And the perfumeOf invisible rosesDeepens the anguish.Let a strong mesh of rootsFeed the crimson of rosesUpon my heart;And then fold over the hollowWhere all the pain was.
The grass is beneath my head;And I gazeAt the thronging starsIn the aisles of night.
The grass is beneath my head;
And I gaze
At the thronging stars
In the aisles of night.
They fall ... they fall....I am overwhelmed,And afraid.
They fall ... they fall....
I am overwhelmed,
And afraid.
Each little leaf of the aspenIs caressed by the wind,And each is crying.
Each little leaf of the aspen
Is caressed by the wind,
And each is crying.
And the perfumeOf invisible rosesDeepens the anguish.
And the perfume
Of invisible roses
Deepens the anguish.
Let a strong mesh of rootsFeed the crimson of rosesUpon my heart;And then fold over the hollowWhere all the pain was.
Let a strong mesh of roots
Feed the crimson of roses
Upon my heart;
And then fold over the hollow
Where all the pain was.